


We Drown So Slowly

by TheCatOnTheMoon



Category: James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: (Snark is always required), (especially Medical), Bullying, Hurt/Comfort/Snark, M/M, Q is NO ONE'S darling, Q/Moneypenny is my fandom friendship OTP, everyone hates Q, q is a sad otter who needs lots of hugs, workplace politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8007325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCatOnTheMoon/pseuds/TheCatOnTheMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MI6 had just been through hell. Their security had been breached, their existence called into question, and above all, M was dead.</p><p>MI6 needed a scapegoat.</p><p>And there he was.</p><p>(Or: The one where Q is no one’s darling.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has probably been thoroughly Jossed by Spectre. But then again, since I'm pretending that Spectre doesn't exist, that doesn't really matter to me. 
> 
> Bits of this have been up on Tumblr, and I was asked very nicely by a reader if I would post my other works here on AO3. So this is for the very lovely dreamtigre, and for Minmu who was tremendously helpful when I was picking away at this on Tumblr.

> "People speak sometimes about the ‘bestial’ cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.” – Fyodor Dostoevsky

“

_He who smiles in a crisis has found someone else to blame._

The saying flashed through Q’s mind as he sat in the meeting with M and the other higher-ups, in the aftermath of Skyfall. 

All of them turned in his direction with small, pitying smiles on their faces.

“Quartermaster...”

Slowly, he sat up straighter, took a deep breath, and looked calmly back at them as he waited.

***

Q was well aware that that was the way the system worked: MI6 had just been through hell. Their security had been breached, their existence called into question, and above all, M was dead.

MI6 needed a scapegoat.

And there he was, perfectly wrapped in an oversized cardigan like a Christmas present. The youngest ever quartermaster—most of his subordinates were at least a decade older than he was and unfamiliar with the pop culture references he offhandedly doled out in the middle of work conversations— new to the job, lacking experience and connections and just about anything important.

Except brains. He had those in spades. Unfortunately, that didn’t count for all that much when the whole Skyfall assessment was one big power play between all the department heads eager to point out why _they_ were entirely blameless.

Fact: Q had been the one who’d been foolish enough let Silva into their computers. 

_Not such a clever boy._

Fact: He’d been the one who’d gone rogue when he’d laid out a trail for Silva to follow to Skyfall, knowing full well that he’d be operating outside of orders.

(Of course 007 had gotten no more than a slap on the wrist from the new M. Double-Os got a ridiculous amount of leeway. Q supposed that their ability to kill annoying people with just their thighs was probably a factor, although he wished that he could point out that with a neat bit of hacking, he could turn off every life support system in London or send every train crashing off the rails. He could be Silva if he wanted to be.

He didn’t bother. He didn’t want to be Silva—it seemed to involve an unnecessary amount of drama, and he’d never been much for theatrics—and he wasn’t stupid enough to remind them of what kind of a danger he posed.)

Fact: Q had few allies with any clout to support him. The new M vouched for him, yes, but Gareth Mallory was only days into the position and couldn’t risk rocking too many boats just yet. Tanner was on his side, but Tanner was still grieving and had gone on indefinite leave since M’s death. 

Q hadn’t been Q long enough to build up his own network. He was a private person by nature; before his sudden promotion, he’d only had a small circle of friends in MI6. Most of them had died when their old headquarters had been attacked, and even more had resigned or retired afterwards, partly because some of them had been badly injured, and partly because most had been sane enough to realise that the likelihood of them leaving MI6 in a body bag was a little bit higher than they’d expected—nobody really expects tech support to lose body parts for reasons other than poorly timed in-house experiments. He was supposed to be interviewing more potential recruits, once HR got their act together, but at the moment they were busy trying to fill the other departments. Including their own.

He’d started making some tentative friendships among the agents and his staff, but nothing solid enough to help him in this particular situation. And just about all of those potential relationships quickly disappeared once the official story trickled down through the ranks, neatly placing all the responsibility on his shoulders.

Not quite a fact, but pertinent nonetheless: Q blamed himself, in his weaker moments. 

Rationally, he knew that it was a combination of factors that had let to the situation. Silva had been planning to infiltrate MI6 long before he’d assumed the quartermaster position. Anyone could have made the mistake of plugging Silva’s laptop into the mainframe. He’d done the best he could under the circumstances. It was illogical to think that he was the sole cause of everything.

Q had never claimed to be a wholly logical being.

So Q nodded along and said nothing when they talked about his ‘grievous errors’, which had ‘contributed significantly to the damage involved in Skyfall’. He stayed complacent as they threw around words like ‘probation’ and ‘permanent record’.

He carried on being Q, because M said so, and because despite it all, brains did count for something.

***

“Too many people are starting to figure out how to get up here. We’ll have to think of another hiding spot soon.”

Q looked up from his solitary rooftop lunch to see Moneypenny standing by the doorway. “Miss Moneypenny.”

“Moneypenny’s fine. Or Eve, if you prefer. Why are you up here?”

“The cafeteria’s too crowded, and I can’t abide anyone eating or drinking around sensitive tech down in Q-Branch.” Exceptions were made for anything with caffeine in it, because Q was strict but he wasn’t a _monster_ , and his grip on Q-Branch was tenuous enough without forcing his undercaffeinated subordinates into outright rebellion.

“Fair enough,” she said, sliding down to sit beside him on the ledge, heedless of her silk skirt. She kicked off her heels with a sigh before turning to run a critical eye over him. “You’re holding up very well, all things considered.”

All things considered—which could mean anything from the additional cuts they’d made to his budget, the conveniently ‘misplaced’ paperwork that meant that he still didn’t even have a quarter of the staff he needed, the fact that agents sometimes made pointed requests to have someone else handle them on missions, the way people ignored him in the hallways... it was like being transported to his school days, though at least he was spared the indignity of kneesocks.

He shot her a small, weary smile. “It’s a stressful time for everyone.”

“And yet you’re the one lurking up here like an overgrown bat.”

“It was my childhood dream to become Batman when I grew up.”

“You’d make a very scrawny caped crusader,” she observed.

“Being Q is better than Batman,” he answered, raising an eyebrow and offering her his vanilla pudding. She brightened as she took it with an obscene amount of glee—he bit his lip to prevent any Gollum jokes from escaping. “It’s far more efficient.”

She grinned. “Sarcastic and provides pudding. I like you.”

“Nice to know that someone does.”He’d meant it to come out light-hearted, but it sounded more strained than anything.

“I’ve been where you are,” she said. And he did know that. He’d been around when the news had gone out that she’d killed the infamous 007. Moneypenny had been ostracised for a short time. But it was different, then. M had put a stop to that nonsense quickly, and everyone had listened to M.

Now M was dead, and they thought it was Q’s fault.

“It does go away, Q. Eventually.”

“How?”

“Well, in my case the dead person just resurrected himself,” she said with a shrug.

He gave her a sombre look. “I already looked into regeneration techniques, but then my test subjects started craving brains and I decided it would be a poor idea all around to carry on.”

“Sensible of you.” She got to her feet and smoothed out her skirt; she’d already been gone ten minutes, and the piles of paperwork on her desk had no doubt magically tripled again. She would swear they were reproducing. “Give them time. Just stay on your toes, keep providing people with shiny things, and do try and socialise with your subordinates every now and then.”

“They can hunt me, because I can take it. Because I’m not your hero. I’m a silent guardian, a watchful protector,” he said with a straight face.

“Shall I fetch you a cape?” she asked dryly. “If you can leave off your dark, broody persona sometime, you should join me at my desk for lunch tomorrow.”

“You only want me for my pudding.”

“I prefer chocolate, for future reference.” She smirked and glided away, quietly singing, “Nana nana nana nana nana nana—Batman!”

***

The first day, Q didn’t show up. Moneypenny had to go up to the roof to fetch him. “Do you see how high these heels are, Q? If you make me climb those stairs again, I’ll bring down Q-Branch with the power of paperwork.” 

“There’s a _lift_ , Moneypenny.”

“There are also fifty-something odd documents that may or may not need your signature by the end of the day. They’re long and excruciatingly boring.” She examined her nails. “I also haven’t decided yet whether they need to be filled out in triplicate.”

Q got to his feet. “You’re very attractive when you’re bullying people into doing your bidding,” he said. 

“I’m very attractive all the time,” she countered, dragging him down to her desk where she proceeded to make horrified noises at what he considered lunch.

“It isn’t a meal if it’s composed of ninety percent coffee,” she insisted. 

“The other ten percent is a salad,” he pointed out.

“I’m not sure if it counts. It looks more like you’re drinking caffeine soup with a few pieces of lettuce as garnish on the side. Where did you even get that silo to anyway? Why are they letting you keep it a silo on our roof for coffee storage, of all things?"

“Won it off the Explosives team in a poker game when I was still a Q-branch grunt. I think they used to use it for storing chemicals? Not really certain.” It was one of the most heavily guarded things in all of MI6, mostly because it would have been one of the first targets in their little we-hate-Q campaign otherwise. As far as he was concerned, he was doing them all a favour. If they touched his coffee, he would probably rain fire and death on MI6. He wouldn't even need to salt the earth after, since there would be nothing left to salt.

“Are you trying to induce genetic mutation in yourself?”

“All part and parcel of my attempt to become a superhero,” he replied blithely. “If I can’t be the Dark Knight, I always did like Professor Xavier.”

After that he simply went straight to her to spare himself the indignity of being caught by the scruff of his neck like a naughty kitten. He packed puddings for her for an entire week until she made him stop, citing her girlish figure. 

“I’m not keeping you around for your pudding, Quartermaster,” she said, affectionate exasperation creeping into her voice as she batted away his offering of strawberry pudding. 

“It’s my dry wit, isn’t it? It brings all the boys to the yard,” he deadpanned.

“Exactly,” she agreed. Q made a face at her (he was young, and he couldn’t help acting like it sometimes—Moneypenny knew she should discourage it, but it was _adorable_ ) before offering the pudding to Mallory, who accepted it graciously. Moneypenny had a rotating cast of people dropping by her desk for lunch. Occasionally Mallory joined them, sometimes it was the Double-Os, often the secretary pool. 

The latter, in particular, had gotten fond of Q, whom they coddled with the force of a thousand grannies, even the ones in their mid-twenties. Even the _male_ executive assistants, who all dressed in suits that cost as much as his tech and made scarily envious pronouncements about the fluffiness of his hair while clucking over his constant lack of sleep, tendency to walk into things, and poor life choices in general. They reminded him of M, and none of them blamed him at all for the Skyfall incident.

“You were so new to the position,” one of the older assistants said sympathetically, patting him on the arm. “Besides, that rascal Bond no doubt convinced you, you poor dear.” Q had early on in life learned that his face and rumpled clothes would mean forever being treated like a silly child, and he had no shame in capitalising on it when it served his purposes. 

“He’s just so terribly convincing, I couldn’t say no,” he said with a little lip wobble and much casting down of his eyes. Moneypenny had to excuse herself to hide her fit of laughter from the rest of them.

He didn’t mind the hair-ruffling quite so much, but their attempts at switching his coffee for decaf were simply unacceptable. They’d quickly hammered out a compromise where he suffered through their matchmaking attempts with minimal complaint—because he was apparently a ‘nice young man’ who needed looking after, and all of them invariably had single cousins/nieces/daughters, which had quickly switched into cousins/nephews/sons when he hadn't shown the least bit of interest in their former offerings—if they didn’t touch his probably-hazardous coffee.

Most of Moneypenny’s lunchtime companions just watched Q with wary, curious looks. He hadn’t known quite what to say, at first, but Moneypenny inevitably needled him into bantering with her, and then he forgot to be guarded with his words.

It began with Moneypenny, and Q knew that she’d known exactly what she was doing by inviting him to eat with her. The visible show of support from her—and M, when he could be torn away from Very Important Things—had people slowly warming up to him again. At the very least, the open hostility had died down a bit, and 004 had stopped polishing her gun in front of him whenever she came down to Q-Branch, so he was chalking it up as a partial win.

***

It happened after a fortnight. Q supposed he should have expected it, but he’d still gotten caught off guard and nearly spilled his coffee down his front when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Moneypenny, I’m away two weeks and you’re already starting up a home for wayward little boys?”

“Empty nest syndrome, Bond, you know how it is,” she replied, as Q pried Bond’s fingers off him. “Don’t damage the merchandise.”

“He can handle a few broken fingers,” Q huffed. He hadn’t even reached for his taser; he thought this showed remarkable self-restraint.

“I was talking to Bond. No molesting the Quartermaster, 007, or we’ll have words. Be nice. I’d like to keep this one.”

Bond stole a kiwi from her fruit salad. “And here I thought I was your favourite.”

“I shot you for a reason.”

“Are we pretending that that was intentional, now?”

“See, this is why Q’s my favourite,” she said sourly as Bond laughed. 

***

Q didn’t mean to like Bond. The man was egotistical enough as it was. Bond toyed with him because he was prickly, and Q knew it. His reactions were amusing to the man; he was a novelty, and nothing more. 

But when he ran into Bond at the cemetery, the two of them stared at each other. Q clutched the bouquet a little tighter in his hand.

“Bond,” he acknowledged with a nod.

“Q.” Bond had a bottle of scotch and was carefully placing it on the grass growing atop M’s grave. Q was fairly certain that Bond was about to make some hobos or wandering teenagers very happy, once the two of them cleared off. Bond glanced at the arrangement of tulips. “She was allergic to those.”

“...bollocks.”

Bond’s face was blank. “She won’t know the difference. She’s dead.”

“You shut up,” Q said sharply, because of course it made a difference. 

Some of the tension left his frame, as though Q had just passed some sort of test. “I never did thank you for Skyfall.”

Q snorted. “I didn’t really think you would.” 

“Oh, good. Then I won’t.”

“Rude,” Q said, smirking. “How is that you’re somehow even worse than the cautionary tales the secretarial pool’s been feeding me?”

“I do my best to exceed expectations,” he deadpanned. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” Before he left, though, he paused, taking in the messy hair and the dark circles that never seemed to leave the Quartermaster’s eyes. He clasped a hand on Q’s shoulder. “If you can’t accept that it wasn’t your fault, you can at least know that the ones who really matter don’t blame you for it. Not me, not Tanner, not Eve, not Mallory.” 

His eyes were very blue, Q thought in a daze.

“And fuck anyone who says otherwise.” He released Q and walked off.

“Is that a thing you do?” Q called after him. “Deliver a one-liner and then just stroll away with your coat flapping dramatically in the breeze?” Bond chuffed out a laugh without turning back, waving a hand lazily back at Q. 

He waited until Bond left before he let himself sink down to sit beside M’s grave. He reached up to touch the spot where Bond’s hand had been. He glared at M’s grave, because he just knew that had M been alive, she would have known about his newborn crush within a week and laughed at him before giving him a lecture about the life expectancy of Bond’s sexual partners—oh God, they hadn’t even had sex and he was already expecting to die due to Bond relations. 

"Do not," he told the grave with an annoyed scowl.

He had the impression of M snorting derisively at him from whatever afterlife she was in. (And the thing was, Q personally didn't even believe in an afterlife, yet he was absolutely _certain_ that it existed just for M to judge him for his poor life choices.)

Q had to remind himself that it would be very poor form to take a swig of that scotch Bond had left, no matter how much he found himself needing a drink after that little revelation.


	2. Chapter 2

Things were going well. Then, of course, Q had to ruin it all by nearly dying.

That was Moneypenny’s version of the story, at any rate. According to Q, things went pear-shaped when 006 nearly died.

(“It was Jack.”

“No, it was you. Jack doesn’t count, because he’s an active agent. Active agents nearly dying? Must be a Tuesday.”

“Yes, but—“

“Nearly doesn’t count anymore. In fact, thanks to 007, actual death doesn’t count either, unless they can produce the body.”

Bond had just ignored them when they’d tried to put him in the middle of it, because there was really no way he could have won when caught between a vicious I-shot-you-once-I-can-do-it-again ‘personal assistant’ and If-you-want-shiny-toys-you’d-better-agree-with-me deranged boy genius. 

According to Mallory, whom they’d asked to break the tie, none of it would have happened if Moneypenny had been around, because she would have prevented the Q-nearly-dying bit, at least. 

“Which really makes it your fault, M, because you’re the one who shipped her off to Moldova,” Q had pointed out.)

As it was, though, Moneypenny had been sent to Moldova to handle A Situation that required her to soothe ruffled feathers and threaten people with her stilettos. M had sent Bond to accompany her, partly for security and partly because Bond was insufferable about being grounded at headquarters, but still hadn’t managed to clear the evaluations. Q, in the meantime, had promised Moneypenny that he would ingest something other than coffee while she was gone, and flatly refused to give Bond a goodbye kiss when the agent had suggested it.

“Why yes, the fact that you’ve been gone a week means that I’m actually dying here, Moneypenny,” he said into the phone when she rang him during his lunch hour, because she refused to take his word for it that he wouldn’t weep on the roof about being young and unloved in her absence while the bigger kids on the playground made off with his lunch money. 

“Of rickets, probably,” she snorted. “Or caffeine overdose. Is that possible?”

“I think vomiting would happen before anyone could consume fatal levels of coffee. I’m not sure. I’d have to ask Medical, but they’re all quacks anyway.” He stretched, making a disgruntled noise as he did so. He’d overdone it on the treadmill that morning, and there was now a persistent stitch in his side. Or perhaps that was all the baked goods that the secretarial pool had force-fed him for lunch. They seemed to agree with Moneypenny, and they’d made noises about hurt feelings until he’d sampled all of their creations. Even Juliet’s truly horrible brioches, which he’d eaten with actual tears in his eyes. He’d taken a few back to Q-Branch for analysis, because he was fairly certain that they could be weaponised—then again, they were practically weapons in their own right, judging by how ill he now felt.

“You’re just angry because they banned you from drinking from your coffee nuclear waste tank.”

“They’re not qualified chemists! How would they even know if there were still trace amounts of—“

“Go ahead and requisition a cauldron,” she said, as though Q didn’t know that that would only fuel the snide ‘Harry Potter’ asides he got all the time. No doubt that was Moneypenny’s intention all along. “M will sign off on it if it gets you to stop whingeing.” 

“Speaking of whingeing, how’s Bond?”

“Oh, you know. “Shagging half the city, drinking all their liquor, probably making something explode somewhere. Possibly picking you up a souvenir. I told him you were a child’s size extra-small.”

“I don’t miss you at all, Moneypenny.”

She laughed. “I’ll tell him you send your regards. Do attempt not to die while I’m not there.”

***

Q, though, had never been very good at following instructions. Back in his uni days, one of the quickest ways to get him to do something was to forbid it; he’d since been able to rein in his more rebellious tendencies for the sake of professionalism—passing over the Skyfall incident, which Q refused to count since both Mallory and the old M had been in on it—but his first instinct was always to touch the hot stove or poke the bear. So really, Moneypenny should have known that she’d been tempting fate with that last call.

(“I’m not actually omniscient, Q,” she said, exasperated. “Pardon me for not foreseeing that your contrary nature would be triggered by careless banter.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, you lost me at ‘not actually omniscient’. Mustn’t tell lies, Moneypenny.”)

“Keep moving forward,” Q said into the comm, trying to will away his nausea. He’d attempted to counter the poisonous brioches with generous applications of vodka so that he could get some sleep, but he’d woken up feeling all the worse for all the alcohol he’d tossed back. He’d already thrown up twice that morning, and he couldn’t decide if it was the half-empty bottle sitting on his countertop or Juliet’s baked assassination attempt that had caused it. That amount was typically nothing to him (as a student, he’d had a Russian roommate who liked to mix up their ‘water’ bottles), but apparently it had been far too long since he’d last gone drinking, and he’d reverted back to his pre-uni lightweight tendencies. “Don’t touch that door, it’s rigged to explode.”

“Get me out of here, Q,” huffed 006, moving as quickly as he could while keeping out of sight. Q had already disabled the security cameras, but he couldn’t really do anything about the actual security personnel running around looking for him. “You’re moving like a pregnant three-legged cow.”

“Yes, insult the person currently trying to extract you from near-certain death,” he muttered, fighting the throbbing in his temples. “Not feeling up to my usual pretty princess standards today, no, but I assure you that I’m doing my best to...” He couldn’t help the tiny, pained noise as he pressed a hand to his stomach. “I’d turn you over to Florence, but—“

“No time,” 006 agreed, breathless. The seconds it would take to get Flo caught up simply weren’t there. “Drinking on a Wednesday? What are you, a field agent? Keep the pub nights to your weekends in the future.”

“Criminals like weekends, so scheduling my appalling drinking habits on Saturdays would only lead to the end of civilisation as we know it. Left, 006. There’s a service door there, I’ve got Evac on standby once you get out.”

“It won’t open,” 006 grunted. 

Q scrubbed at his face. “What is it with you Double-Os and service doors? At least there isn’t a train coming this time. Put your back into it.”

“It’s locked,” the agent shot back. “Digital.” That hadn’t been on the blueprints, but things did slip through the cracks sometimes. “Hurry up, there’s no train but I’ve a horde of bodyguards after me.”

His fingers flew over the keyboard. “Give me a moment—“

He let out a gasp of pain as he doubled over, clutching at his table with a white-knuckled grip. 

“Q?” 006 hissed, frantic. “They’re right around the corner, I need—“

A shot rang out and a strangled yell of pain came over the comm, quickly followed by the sounds of a scuffle and more shots.

“006!” Q mastered himself and straightened, typing frantically. It would have to be a brute force job instead of the usual finesse he preferred in sneaking into systems, and he risked leading them back to MI6, but needs must. “006, status.”

“What the fuck, Q, get me out of here,” rasped 006. “I’m not dying in bloody Bosnia.” He coughed wetly.

“Status,” Q snapped. 

“Four enemies down. Out of bullets, likely concussion... possible punctured lung.”

Q swallowed hard. “Hold on, agent. We’re almost there.” The rest of Q-Branch had gone silent, prototypes and coding put on hold as they watched Q for those last few breathless seconds. “Now.”

There was a long moment of silence punctuated only by harsh panting before a cool female voice interrupted. “Q-Branch, this is Evac. We’ve got him.”

***

Forget Harry Potter; Q was certain he’d been Voldemort in a past life. It was the only reason he could think of for the horrible mess that was his life.

He stood motionless for an interminable stretch of time, trying to get his breathing under control. Slowly, sound returned as Q-Branch seemed to awaken from the deathly hush that had fallen over them, and they resumed their duties.

But.

He could feel their eyes on him like a physical weight as he hunched over his console. 

It only took twenty minutes before word came down.

“M wants to see you.”

***

“You look terrible,” Mallory noted as Q came in. 

Q was tempted to point out that anyone would look awful if they had to come up for a dressing-down from the head of MI6. “Sir,” he said, inclining his head.

“006 is in intensive care at our satellite branch in Bosnia,” Mallory said, gesturing for him to sit. 

Q worried at his thumbnail. “Is he going to be all right?”

“Operations can go bad. That’s part of the job. But apparently you weren’t in top shape today, and it shows, Q.” He gave him a critical once-over. “Rough night?” Clearly he had already heard of Q and 006’s little exchange over the comms.

“...I consumed alcohol last night, yes,” Q answered faintly, knowing that M was really asking. “I didn’t think I’d had enough to affect my performance today.” 

Mallory didn’t say anything for a long moment. Q remained as still as possible in his chair, still chewing on his thumb, almost as if he didn’t realise that he was doing it. The thing was, Mallory liked Q; the boy was obviously brilliant, and given half the chance he could take over the world. Nobody had cared to notice, but Q-Branch productivity had skyrocketed since he’d assumed the position as Quartermaster. The way he’d handled Skyfall had proven his worth, even if the other higher-ups didn’t agree with his assessment. Eve had seen the potential in him and taken Q under her wing (and hadn’t M worried for global welfare when he’d heard of that infernal alliance). 

But the way he was now, all he could think of was how Q had looked at the post-Skyfall assessment, in his rumpled suit and messy hair. Young and obviously terrified, and so guilty.

“Q,” he sighed. “This can’t happen again. Go down to Medical and get some aspirin, then go home and sleep it off. You’re of no use as you are at the moment. We’ll be discussing your behaviour at a later date.” Q flinched as though he’d been hit before nodding and getting to his feet. M sighed as he left.

***

The Voldemort theory was getting a serious boost from the fact that Claire Ratchett ended up being the one assigned to look him over in Medical. 

Claire Ratchett was a tiny blonde woman with a sweet smile, a fondness for gingersnaps, and a vindictive streak that made Silva look positively benevolent by comparison.

And she also happened to be 006’s current girlfriend.

She slapped some pills into his hand with a look of disgust. He eyed them with apprehension—he was pretty certain that she was one of those Angel of Mercy types, and her best friend just happened to work in the Poisons and Contaminants department.

“Symptoms?” she asked. 

“Aren’t you supposed to ask me that before giving me medication, Dr. Ratchett?” He blanched at her cold glare. “Er. Headaches... nausea... my stomach kind of hurts...”

“Are you suffering unduly?”

He blinked. “Yes?”

“Good,” she said with an unnecessary amount of cheer. 

“I’m... fairly sure that this isn’t what medical schools teach about bedside manner...”

“It’s our first anniversary this weekend,” she said flatly. “We had plans. Sexy plans. Which will not be happening because he’s bleeding to fucking death in fucking Bosnia.”

“Er,” he said, because what else could he say to the has-no-brain-to-mouth-filter girlfriend of the agent who’d just gotten critically injured under his watch? “I’m sorry.” He glanced at the unlabeled packet of drugs she’d given him and decided to bin them once he got home. There was no way he was going to ingest anything from her.

“I’ve been petitioning to have Medical try out some more experimental treatments,” she continued. “Like leeches.”

Definitely going to bin them. “...I think I’m going to go now.”

“Yes,” she said, picking up a wicked-looking needle. “Perhaps that would be best.”

***

“Three days, Q,” Moneypenny complained. “I’m gone three days, and suddenly you’re getting memos summoning you to the Dread Chambers—“

“Do the executives know that you call their meetings that?” Q asked, wincing as he rubbed at his aching temples. “Because that seems extremely unprofessional to me.”

“As though they could do anything to me,” she snorted. Which... fair point, Q supposed. She was M’s personal assistant and therefore one of the highest-ranking members of the secretarial pool, and the secretarial pool was frankly terrifying. They knew where all the bodies were buried. She was quiet for a moment. “Q...”

“I know. I can’t afford another mess, not now,” he said, voice low. “I must have done something horrid in a past life.” He frowned at his laptop’s monitor. He’d hacked into the security cameras of their medical facility in Bosnia, and was watching 006’s sleeping form. “I was probably Jack the Ripper.”

“Why are you whispering?” Bond’s voice chimed in, because of bloody course Moneypenny had him on speakerphone and hadn’t bothered to tell him. 

“Must be a bad connection,” he lied, making a mental note to install sound proofing. From the stories that the secretarial pool had regaled him with, the Quartermaster’s office had ceased to be soundproofed after one of the previous Qs had apparently passed out inside his office and not been discovered for almost two full days. Everyone had simply assumed that the poor man was pulling another all-nighter.

(Qs were not known for their sensibility. And Q—the current Q—was unfortunately well aware that he was not an exception.)

“Are you hiding away in your office?”

“...no.”

“How bad is it, really?”

He looked at the shards of his Q mug lying in his wastebasket. No one else knew but Tanner, but it had been a promotion gift from M; as far as everyone else was concerned, it had been his own arrogant purchase. As far as everyone was concerned, there had been an ‘accident’ and the mug had simply fallen. 

He’d stood there, staring at the fragments while the Q-Branch member who’d brushed against his desk and sent it crashing to the floor apologised with sincere tones and cold eyes.

“Q?”

He closed his eyes. “I’m having vivid flashbacks to my orphanage days,” he said lightly. Bond let out a soft snarl at that. “Your mother hen routine is extremely tedious. I’m a big boy and I have the long pants to prove it. Speaking of which, I do have work to do. I’m not paid to sit around and entertain your little white knight act, after all, and that diplomatic snafu over there is hardly going to get solved if you keep wasting your time on this.”

“You’re a piss-poor liar.”

“On the contrary, I’m an excellent liar,” he snapped, because he was. “Now go away.”

“We miss you,” Moneypenny said, because unlike the other two, she was not emotionally stunted. And also not above using feelings as a weapon, the minx.

“...er.”

“Dear God, it won’t hurt to actually admit that you miss us too,” she snorted.

“Fine,” he allowed. “Just—hurry back, all right?” He was horrified to realise that his voice had broken without him meaning to. With a quick jab of his finger he ended the call and slumped back in his chair, burying his head in his hands.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written and edited while feeling miserable. Q needs lots of soft blankets and maybe a hug or two.
> 
> (Please go and say something nice to someone sad today.)


	3. Chapter 3

The next day was an exercise in torture; Q considered suggesting that they expose their agents to similar treatment to desensitise them from future emotional trauma.

 

His mission roster was _empty._

 

“003 is scheduled for an infiltration in Cambodia today,” he said, staring at the blank rows.

 

Susan fidgeted, avoiding his eyes. “Sorry, sir. 003 elected to have Hollister handle it.”

 

He shut his mouth. He wasn’t an idiot.

 

He’d known he was absolutely fucked when he walked by the secretarial pool and their faces were full of pity, which was somehow even worse. (That, and the fact that they seemed to have purchased entire bakeries worth of goods in a misguided attempt to comfort him. He didn’t need comforting, and for once the idea of sugar made his stomach turn, and he couldn’t bear the sight or smell of anything.)

 

He’d fled to the rooftop for lunch, dodging past his well-meaning friends, and worked the rest of the day in his office, with only the bare minimum of contact with the few underlings he had. No one was outright cruel or rude. He’d probably have preferred that, actually; MI6 had taken passive-aggressive and turned it into an art form, all the while being as maddeningly professional as possible.

 

But one didn’t get to Quartermaster without developing some sort of survival instinct, and he was aware that something wasn’t quite right with him; the ‘hangover’ didn’t seem to be going away despite the fact that he hadn’t touched another drop since, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d caught some sort of bug. He was still constantly throwing up, and he was starting to feel overly warm and dizzy in his cardigans.

 

Also one of his underlings had paused by his desk and insisted that he get looked over. “Q, sir, you don’t look well at all. Is this biological warfare?” Florence joked, smiling wanly at him. “Not that those lot don’t deserve it, but really, you could be getting your germs all over our precious tech, sir.”

 

“I’ll make sure I only cough at the appropriate people, Flo,” he promised.

 

“Or I could bully you into heading to Medical,” she said.

 

“I’m your superior.”

 

“I know,” she said. “And I actually respect that, when you’re making me do things like put together bombs and yell at stupid agents who don’t realise that equipment is more important than their limbs—“

 

“—Flo, I know we’re all thinking it, but we’re not actually supposed to say that out loud—“

 

“—it’s fine, the psychologists aren’t here to hear me, and I spent a year and a half on that prototype 0010 lost. What I was trying to say is that, the whole superior thing doesn’t factor in when... well. You look like death, sir.” She paused. “Also Drew is a hypochondriac and he’s been having hysterics every time you so much as blink in his direction, and Susan’s been on WebMD for _hours_ now terrifying him and sending him photos of liquefying organs, so please just do us all a favour and confirm that you’re not actually dying of the plague.”

 

“I’m going to do it, but not because you told me to,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster.

 

She snorted, secure in the knowledge that she had about three stone on him, and could probably cart him around like a sack of potatoes should she feel like it. “Oh, of course sir. Wouldn’t dream of it being otherwise.”

 

 So as much as it was the last thing he wanted to do, he dragged himself back to Medical, hesitating outside the door before he finally ventured inside, ignoring the eyes he could feel on him.

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

He looked up to see Claire scowling disdainfully at him. “Are you drunk _again_?” she demanded, a pinched look on her face.

 

“I—no,” he said. “I haven’t—“

 

“Jesus Christ,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like vomit.”

 

“Claire—“

 

“That’s Dr. Ratchett,” she corrected, all ice. He was tempted to yell that he might be about a decade younger, but he still _outranked_ her, and her name was a damn sight better than all the other names that came to mind. Besides which, she had been ‘oh-call-me-Claire’ in that long lost time before Skyfall. When he was nothing but an anonymous Q-branch kid whose problems extended to accidentally setting himself on fire, not being too incompetent to keep people alive.

 

“Right, that’s enough,” Noah said, rolling his eyes. “Claire, you should check on the inventory, I’ll handle the Quartermaster.” Claire snorted and stalked away, muttering what sounded like imprecations against Q’s ancestry.

 

Noah turned back to Q with a tiny frown. “If you _have_ been drinking, you may as well tell me now.”

 

Stung, Q glared at him. “I haven’t. Never mind, I’m fine.”

 

“Really. Because you look unwell. Maybe you stayed up late—“

 

“What, consuming vats of vodka and pickling my liver with tequila, Dr. Grimshaw?” he finished bitterly.

 

“Or being stressed,” Noah said, unperturbed. “Quartermaster is a very stressful and difficult job, especially for someone so _young_ and _new_ to the position.”

 

And Q was just done.

 

“You’re a disgrace to Hippocrates,” he said, stalking out. He meant only to go back to Q-Branch, but then Claire went past him with a steaming cup of coffee, a scowl on her face—and he left.

 

Out the door, to the streets, and back to his flat, step by slow, painful step, hours passing as he wended his way through London.

 

No one said anything. He wasn’t certain anyone had even noticed.

 

***

 

2 missed calls – Flo.

 

1 missed call – Drew.

 

3 missed calls – Moneypenny.

 

_M said you weren’t in today? You should have at least called in sick. –EM_

_I know you’re just marathoning In The Flesh and Firefly on that brick you call a sofa. –EM_

_Sir, I took the liberty of putting your things away and locking your office. I hope that’s all right, and I apologise if it was intrusive of me. –DB_

_You’re practically surgically attached to your phone. You bring it with you to the shower. Just text back some proof of life. – EM_

_Fine, ignore me. Enjoy your mental health day. – EM_

_(at least ten continuous messages containing a hysterical essay on diseases passed by skin contact—basically tl;dr for Q, save for a few words such as airborne contagion and putrefaction standing out on his screen) –DB_

_Sorry, sir. Susan’s_ still _terrifying Drew. Managed to convince him he won’t die from touching your things. -FW_

_***_

4 missed calls – Moneypenny.

 

3 missed calls – HR.

 

1 missed call – Flo.

_Are you dead? –EM_

_Sir, are you all right? You aren’t actually dying of plague, are you? – FW_

_Two days off without notice is asking for trouble, Q. –EM_

_Your henchmen are probably staging a Q-Branch mutiny by now. –EM_

***

 

2 missed calls – Flo.

 

2 missed calls – Susan.

 

7 missed calls – Moneypenny.

 

_Sir, you have a meeting with Interpol today at 1:00 p.m. Will you be coming in to work? – FW_

_Sir, we finished the miniaturised flashbang assignment you gave us. Could you let us know if you’re all right and when you’re coming back? – SC_

_We hope you feel better soon. – SC_

_Claire’s probably not homicidal anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about. –EM_

***

 

5 missed calls – HR.

 

_Q, pick up the phone. –EM_

_Q – EM_

_Q, you wanker, stop ignoring me – EM_

_I’m going to set your coffee silo on fire – EM_

_Q, is everything all right? - EM_

***

 

18 missed calls – Moneypenny.

_***_

_We’re coming home. -JB_

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short. I'm too sad today. 
> 
> Poor Q. I put him through such terrible things all the time.
> 
> I hope you're all safe and happy, lovely ones.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of it, Q could only remember in flashes, afterwards: machines and scans, being wheeled down a hallway, someone asking him questions.

Q wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the day he’d left MI6 without telling anyone. He’d been nowhere but his bedroom and his bathroom, fitful bursts of unconsciousness punctuated only by his efforts to drag himself to the toilet to throw up. At some point he’d given up and just dragged a bucket by his sweat-soaked bed. He’d tried everything in his medicine cabinet—he’d even caved and taken the pills Claire had given him, wide-awake for an hour waiting for them to turn out to be poison and kill him—but nothing had worked.

The typical protocol for MI6 employees was that if they were ill was to show up to Medical. Working for MI6 meant shadowy government identities, which meant avoiding hospitals if possible. The less contact they had with the system, the less covering up they had to do. He’d already gotten bitched out for his knitting club membership (“They’re over sixty years old! My stitch ‘n bitch club isn’t going to try to assassinate me. They think I’m a _lepidopterist_.”) 

But the thought of going back there, with Claire no doubt looming over his shoulder to place leeches on his spotty forehead (which he was already insecure enough about without damnable Double-Os commenting on his complexion, thanks very much, Bond) and people muttering about his drinking problems and imminent breakdown made him curl up on himself even more, alternately freezing and burning up.

Finally he dragged himself to his feet and out of the flat, motivated only by the thought of _I refuse to let my cause of death be ‘angst and brioches’_. He would blow up his own flat with him in it before he’d let that happen, but his neighbours were actually quite nice and didn’t deserve to die just because he didn’t want a boring headstone. He flagged a cab down and climbed into it with a whimper, wrapping his arms around himself. “St. Bart’s Hospital, please. Quickly.”

***

By the time Q had gotten to St. Bart’s, he was half out of his mind with pain. Things seemed fuzzy.

“You all right, lad?” the cabbie asked. 

“F-fine,” he mumbled, thrusting a note at him. It was far too much, he was sure of it, but he couldn’t be bothered to check. He fumbled with his wallet before it dropped from his hands onto the cab’s floor, and he decided to just fuck it and go. Ignoring the other man’s concerned shout after him, he stumbled out of the cab and made his way into the building.

And then stopped, dizzy and nauseated.

Where was he, again?

MI6. Of course it was MI6. The only places he ever went since becoming Q were MI6 and home, and this wasn’t his dusty flat with wires and empty takeaway containers littering every available surface. Since it wasn’t home, it could only be MI6. 

That seemed logical. And logical was all he could be anymore, wasn’t it? If he stopped to allow himself to _feel..._

Staggering over to the stairs, he let his feet take him on autopilot down to the lowest level, which housed Q-Branch. 

He blinked for a moment, confused. Had they changed the layout since yesterday? Without telling him? But of course they wouldn’t tell him, no one was talking to him anyway. Swearing quietly under his breath, he fumbled the nearest door open. 

Two people were conversing inside, looking up sharply when he stepped in. “Oh God,” the man said, going pale when he saw Q. He blinked rapidly. “Christ. Molly, you see him too, don’t you? Sher—”

“This,” he mumbled, “isn’t Q-Branch...”

“John, no, it isn’t—it isn’t him,” Molly whispered, just audible enough for Q to hear. She turned back to Q. “Sir, are you lost? You can’t be here—“

He frowned, leaning heavily against the doorway. There was a corpse on the table. “Christ. Are they going to have me killed?” he smiled without humour. “Easy disposal, I suppose.”

John let out a pained laugh. “You sure he isn’t Sherlock? Sounds like him.” 

“Who?” Q asked, before his vision started to tunnel. This wasn’t right. He didn’t go anywhere except home and MI6, and if this wasn’t MI6, this was home. He was fairly certain his home wasn’t a morgue. 

“I don’t—” he managed, before passing out, thinking only _At least I didn’t throw up on his shoes._

***

The rest of it, Q could only remember in flashes, afterwards: machines and scans, being wheeled down a hallway, someone asking him questions. In training they’d been taught never to answer during interrogation, and that it was better to rattle off something unrelated. A person would always talk eventually, but it helped if they talked about something else. He had never thought he would have to use it—again, technical staff wasn’t expected to ever end up in crisis situations, but as a Department Head, it was standard procedure. He’d listened to the others rattle off poetry and found that woefully inelegant, because poetry inevitably came to an end, rendering repetition necessary. It would be too easy to lose count of how many times one repeated something. 

He’d chosen his with the knowledge that perhaps he would need something much longer, something that would tell him how long he’d been reciting it for, how long he’d be waiting for rescue. 

(He tried not to think that, considering how badly he'd handled things, perhaps no one would look for him.

No. If nothing else, he knew too much. They would at least make sure he was dead, so as to keep their secrets.)

So he found himself hazily mumbling the Euclid-Mulin sequence, trying not to break, because MI6 had enough reasons to be angry at him as it was.

“—no ID, no mobile or wallet on him—“

“—surgery—“

“—you’re going to be just fine.” A strong, reassuring hand touched his face briefly.

He broke off from the numbers he’d been trying to rattle off. 

_You’re so kind,_ he marvelled, before the darkness swallowed everything else.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm not in peak health at the moment so this had to be kept short. Let's just say I can relate to Q quite a bit and surgery is not fun. At all. 
> 
> Brief cameos from BBC Sherlock because I adore them, taken from when Sherlock was still believed dead. (I hated the last season of BBC Sherlock).
> 
> Also an aside and explanation. I update this slowly and I've gotten some questions about it. I find that working on this fic can be very triggering for me. Some of it is based on my own experience; how much, I'd rather not say. My rl is high-stress, and I try to avoid anything that adds to that. Unfortunately, that includes WDSS. I love this fic, don't get me wrong, and I won't abandon it. But I do ask for everyone to be a bit patient with me because it is really, really hard for me to write this, and sometimes I wonder why I began this and thought I would be all right doing it. That said--I love everyone who takes the time to read, kudos and comment. You guys make it worth it.


	5. Chapter 5

When Q woke again, it was to the sound of someone tapping away on a tablet.

“You know, I said try _not_ to die.”

“Not dead,” he replied wearily as he opened his eyes. “So I think I get full marks.” His voice sounded ridiculous, hoarse and thin. He made grabby hands at the cup at his bedside, squinting without his glasses. There was fruit basket there, with a neat M written on the card attached to it. 

“You absolute idiot,” Moneypenny said, reaching out to help him drink some water. She was as perfectly pressed and put together as always, but her lips were twisted in the grimace that she only got after the most stressful missions (or dealing with the Finance Department, which was the same thing). “Are you actually going to stay awake this time? You’ve been in and out the last few days.” At his tentative nod, she sighed. “You just disappeared for a week. Do you know what happens when a branch head disappears for that long? MI6 goes looking for him. And when they find that his flat’s empty, with the door wide open, and his phone is still on his bedside—the first thing they think is kidnapping.”

“Not murder?”

Another voice joined in. “Usually they leave the body if it’s murder. So as to send a message.”

“Bond,” he acknowledged. “What happened?”

“You had appendicitis,” the agent supplied. He didn’t look up at Q; his attention was focused on a copy of Cosmo that he was flipping through with morbid fascination. He looked as though he wanted to take a red pen and start correcting all the inaccuracies in their sex advice. “I was mostly joking about you being a bloody child, but you always like to contradict me as dramatically as possible. Though I suppose... at least it wasn’t chicken pox.”

“My apologies for not contracting ebola or something more interesting,” Q said dryly, because he’d snark even if he were on his deathbed. 

“I don’t know, a ruptured appendix and septicaemia seem interesting enough for me,” Moneypenny said. “Because apparently, you’d put it off so long that you almost died. And getting home and having to head a manhunt for you only to find out that you’re comatose in the ICU is just _delightful_. Your branch has been in pieces since you vanished. That subordinate of yours, Walsh? She and a few others have been trying to keep it together, but a lot of your people have made a mess of things while you were gone, all doing nothing but politicking and making excuses since you aren’t there.”

“Poor Flo. She’s probably trying very hard not to just set off some explosives and kill everyone so as to be rid of their stupidity.” He closed his eyes. ““How did you find me?”

“We started with all the morgues in the city,” Moneypenny said. “One of the staff recognised you by description. And of course, since someone from the morgue recognised you, we all thought you were dead.”

Q scowled. “You’d better not have sold my flat.”

“No, but Bond’s been temporarily occupying it,” she teased. 

“Ugh. Never mind, sell it.”

“Double-Os don’t actually piss in random MI6 flats to mark their territory,” Bond said placidly, still flipping through his magazine. “That’s just propaganda Mallory spreads around to prevent fraternising.”

“Someone needs to tell him it isn’t working,” Q said, exhaustion tugging at him again. 

Bond made a sound that, had it been even the slightest bit less elegant, would have been called a snort. “I don’t know, you seem to be resisting my ‘fraternising’ just fine.”

Q, fading into unconsciousness, muttered, “Well, at least one of us thinks I can.”

“Really now,” he heard Bond murmur as he drifted off to sleep, a callused hand brushing a stray curl off his forehead. 

***

The next time he woke up, it was to John and Molly (he was fairly proud of himself for remembering their names even though he’d been busy not dying of blood poisoning at the time) at his bedside. “Hello,” Molly said, fidgeting and giving him an awkward little wave while John looked over his charts. “You look better.”

“I gather that’s thanks to you two. Molly and John, if I remember right?” he said with a smile, tucking away his mobile, which he’d wheedled Moneypenny into bringing to him, although she had in turn bullied him into promising he wouldn’t try to use the Internet just yet, since he tended to hack governments when he was loopy on painkillers. 

(“One time!” he groused.

She gave him an unimpressed look. “You mean, ‘one time that anyone knows of’.”

“It doesn’t count if they can’t prove it.”)

He’d have liked to properly introduce himself, but he had no idea what alias MI6 had arranged for him to use while he was there. For a moment he entertained himself with the thought of getting #superspyproblems trending on Twitter. “Thank you for not letting me, you know. Expire at your feet.”

“Oh, no. That was all John.” She let out a nervous giggle. “He’s an actual doctor, the life-saving kind. I just... do what comes after the life-saving part doesn’t work.”

“You should’ve come in earlier,” John scolded. “Let me guess—too caught up with work to get yourself looked at.”

“I thought it was just food poisoning,” he protested, thinking fuzzily of the last few days. “Or a hangover. I had a check-up, I’m not like the field—not like my colleagues who don’t know how to take care of themselves.”

John’s face went through a complicated series of changes. “You had a check-up, and they didn’t realise it was appendicitis? Your symptoms were practically textbook.”

“Er. My doctor... doesn’t like me very much,” he said weakly. “She’s really quite competent when she wants to be, though.”

John’s expression went from ‘mild-mannered concern’ to ‘about to rack up a higher body count than a season of Game of Thrones. “And she still has her license?"

"Um,” Q said, blinking at him, because admittedly he hadn't thought about it that way. Something in his head had just decided that everyone in MI6 was a little bit off their rocker and more than a little bit furious at him, so he hadn't really stopped to think that Claire was being unprofessional. 

“Your doctor probably missed it,” Molly said, giving John a wary look. “It happens sometimes. Oh, but there's some good news, at least. Mike—I mean, Dr. Stamford, he operated on you—he said you’d be discharged in a few days, if you’ve got someone to take care of you at home.”

“Oh.” Q looked down at his blanket. “What if.” He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the fog of drugs. “What if I don’t have anyone?”

Now it was Molly’s face that couldn’t seem to settle on a single emotion. “Just for a couple of days?” she tried. “Family, maybe?”

He didn’t even bother explaining that he was an orphan, because wow, he couldn’t imagine a better way to get Molly’s face to reach even higher ‘I need to adopt this poor precious child’ levels. 

Q briefly entertained the notion of asking Bond and Moneypenny to help him around his dusty flat for even just two days, and knew it was impossible. Not when they’d already been away from MI6 for so long. They’d probably just get him moved into Medical until he was better, and since the last time he was there he was certain he’d developed a phobia of doctors. He’d once hacked into the cams there, and he’d seen Claire fiddling around with a set of tools labelled ‘Castration’. 

He smiled brightly at them.”Of course.”

***

The next day, Q had himself discharged against medical advice. He did make sure to order a bouquet of flowers for Molly and a couple of bottles of scotch both for John and his doctor, Mike Stamford, who’d been distressed by his insistence on leaving despite dire warnings.

“Mr. Potter, are you certain?” 

Q struggled not to make a face at Moneypenny’s sick sense of humour. He’d have to get back at her for that pseudonym somehow. “Thank you, but yes. I think I have some things I need to get sorted.” 

***

It had taken him some creative manoeuvres to evade Molly and John, whom Stamford had no doubt informed about his leaving Barts. When Q’s mobile rang, he checked the name flashing on screen before answering it. “Welcome to Q’s Quiz Time. To reach the Quartermaster, you are required to answer this question: What animals are described by the term ‘batrachian’? You have five seconds to answer before this call is automatically terminated.”

“Frogs and toads.”

“...seriously, Moneypenny? I thought you said you weren’t all-knowing.”

“I had some of your staff on standby. They Google faster than I thought possible. Have you genetically modified them somehow?”

Q wondered if they’d been sneaking sips from his coffee silo before swiftly dismissing the idea. The defence mechanisms on it would have left nothing more than steaming puddles if anyone tried. “Stop misusing my department. Every time you go down there in your tarty skirts and heels, productivity goes down twenty percent.”

She was silent a moment. “What’s going on, Q? You left Bart’s without telling anyone, and you’re not back in MI6.”

He sighed. “I need some time. I was actually just about to call HR and tell them I’d be taking a few days off.”

“Right, that’s reasonable. Do you want me to come over later? We can get takeaway and watch Nigella. I promise not to mother you too much. I’ve been reliably informed I have no maternal skills.”

Q didn’t doubt that. He’d been privy to her malevolent mutterings of things like “God, I want to punch a baby” when in the presence of screaming toddlers. “

(“What?” she’d demanded. “Don’t give me that look, it’s three in the morning and everyone’s thinking it, I’m just the only one who doesn’t have a problem vocalising it.”

“No, I’m all right with the theoretical baby punching,” he’d said with a shrug. “Just, it’s rather lovely to see you a little unhinged. You’re always so composed.”

“I really, really, _really_ do not want children,” she’d said malevolently. “And there is bloody nothing wrong with not wanting them.” Which was how Q had known, then, that her mum had just called to pester her about her ticking biological clock again.

“Come on, let’s get pissed,” he’d offered, taking her arm. “If you want, we can go call Bond so there’s someone who’ll make us feel marginally less like personal disasters.”

She’d laughed tiredly. “As though that’s the real reason why you want him to join us. But if it leads to the two of you finally shagging, at least my personal breakdown will be good for something.”)

“As lovely as both you and Nigella are, I’ll have to decline.” He sighed. “I need a break away from all things MI6 for a while.”

“Q... this isn’t just about taking time off to recover, is it?”

He hesitated only a moment, but that was more than enough for her to pick up on. “Not really, no,” he admitted. He wasn’t certain how to tell her that he’d lain in the hospital staring at the ceiling for ages after John and Molly had left, floored by the realisation that he didn’t have anyone in the world who he could reasonably rely on to care for him after he’d almost died, and that he despised the thought of going in to work so much that he was almost glad he’d gotten ill. 

He pulled the sleeves of his oversized cardigan over his fingertips, buying time while he forced out the words that he’d never let himself even think until now.

“I don’t know if I want to be Quartermaster anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and sorry I've been away for so long. Fun fact about this chapter: since working on the bare bones of it, something similar happened to me (not appendicitis, though, but the dramatic rush to the hospital after having symptoms ignored for too long). The irony was not lost on me whilst I lay on the hospital bed, and everyone thought I was absolutely mad for laughing for apparently no reason while they stuck needles into me. 
> 
> I really have no idea where I'll be taking Q from here on in. I suppose this chapter is the crisis point-slash-crossroads part of the fic. We all have those moments, don't we.


End file.
